950, 1400, 1800

I am so depressed.  I feel so fucking...empty that I cannot even begin to describe it.

 

I know; no one wants to hear about it.  But I miss my Measle.

 

I actually burst into tears the other day watching fucking mechanical dogs playing.  Seriously; I am that badly off.  They are ours (all third gen; we use them in some studies when we use general population people a lot of the time 'cos they're more approachable-looking to civilians/non-experts than most of the alternatives we have), and one of them is injured.  We have to ship it off to the UK to be fixed, and we changed the brain-chip out with the other one to see if it was the body or the brain, and it was just so sad to watch the sick little pup, because it kept dying, over and over.  I have tried to not get attached to any of them 'cos I am going to have to leave for good soon, and of all the things I would fall in love with and feel the need to rescue/liberate, I'm sure it would be a god-damned $5k fake dog.  Or two.  Or five.  As if enough real ones weren't dying unloved and unwanted at the City Pound every day, as if I didn't have four perfectly wonderful cats at home who need me, but I cannot help the way my mind works; the guilt I feel over leaving Romeo's body alone in the cold darkness at the cat morgue waiting to be cremated is indescribable.  And no, I don't believe in an afterlife, or even the idea of an xtian 'soul', and yes, I know Romeo is long-gone and feels nothing.  Knowing that does not assuage my feelings of guilt over leaving his body in the cold, 'cos he hated being cold so much when he was alive.  It has more to do with doing right by those you love even after they are gone than some who-feels-what crap; it's about dignity, about respect.  It's about no one at the vet understanding that I wanted his eyes closed.  Maybe there was no way to do it, I don't know.  But I can empathise with the perceived need to liberate mechapups 'cos they will be lonely without you.  In some way -- some form of lonely.  Like lifeless cat bodies. 

 

Butsoanyway.

 

So as I am watching the dog die again and again, it occurred to me that the two were the colours I'd had to choose from for Romeo's urn (black and white), and I just started crying -- for myself, Romeo, and the poor un-real dog.  Just like Romeo, the brain was fine -- perfect -- it was the body that is destroyed.  I took a picture of it trying to not die, then rebooting itself, then dying again anyway.  No way to win.  Once I pull it off my phone, I'll post it.

 

And it upset me that when White was dying, everyone was just ignoring it, playing with Black...regardless of whose brain was in Black.  There's a lot here, and I am working up expounding on it elsewhere, but..I know that I am boring when I go off on these tangents (or so I infer, based on a sea of facial expressions...or lack thereof), so I'll not belabour the point here, but...it bothers me that no one was concerned (or observed, or followed the train of thought...) that Blackbrain might be (a form of) distressed in Whitebody, having not experienced this before.  Or that Whitebrain feels *trapped* in Whitebody, and a form of happiness in Blackbody.  I know that they all didn't just have Lovely Siameasles with brilliant, sharp-as-a-tack brains die in a collapsing body, but...surely, we have all worked together long enough, no?  It was one of those 'all that I have done for you and tried to teach you has been for nought and because of this, you people annoy me' moments. 

 

I am fully aware that 'normal' people do not do/think/feel this sort of thing -- all of it.  I am also aware that in a ton of ways, I am mildly batshit.  Cope with it, or don't; as the stupid saying goes, 'normal' is over-rated.  But on the other hand, normal people don't do what I do all day, every day; it's like a study in how to develop non-sexual paraphilia...and be mildly batshit.  There's a better word for it, but ... whatever.  Some day I need to figure out how to not be googleable; one would think that in all this time I would have managed it, but hey -- I am stupid and busy.  Is that a word?  Googleable?  ;-)  I really do feel as if I have problems to start with; I feel things way too much, I think way too much (it might not come off as I mean it, but this is not a Good Thing), and I am in a breeding ground for left-of-centre thinking, not that I needed any help, what with hugging a mock-up of a search-bot after taping the other week, and that was *before* Romeo passed away. 

 

Well, what?  It did much better than I'd thought it would do given its inferior innards (my fault -- poor planning and resource allocation), and I was very happy with it. 

 

Butsoanyway.

 

So I keep boo-hoo crying with no warning, even though I had a whole year to say goodbye.  It's easy to believe that time won't ever run out when it's in the process of running out...or at least it is easy for me.  I want to write about Romeo's personality and life, but I want to do it without crying and vomiting; give me a few days.  I *still* look for him for a second before I remember that he is gone, and think I see and hear him sometimes -- like out of the corner of my eye, or as if he had *just* meowed in another room.  At least what I 'hear' is his normal chatter, not cries of distress.  He is my phantom-limb friend.  His is definitely a well-established eye- and ear-to-brain pathway after fifteen years and nine months, and just about anything will trigger it...even wishing. 

 

I know, I know...and blog posts full of lugubrious wallowings. 

 

I have to, if you can believe it, come up with sounds that will be used to replace speech for a set of phrases for a project that is so overdue that it is ridiculous.  By, like, TOMORROW MORNING.  Bonus points for identifying my title.  Actually, bonus points and a copy of How To Get A Life, cos it may be needed.  :-)  I know I need it. 

 

I am having a really difficult time getting started on things; this is one of them.  I think it is depression, but knowing what it is doesn't make it stop.  I need to get sleep eventually, as well.  I'm fine.  Really.  Just sad.  Really, really sad.  And stressed.  What makes me even more miserable is that Romeo could always tell when I was down, and used to come sit by me.  He was my best friend. 

 

.